Campaign 1 • Epilogue
Sunset :The Year 4E 303, the 16th day of Selethen. :It has been over 200 years since the Fall of Silverthorne and, in some ways, the world has never recovered. The beating heart of the empire was ripped out, and replaced by a corruption that, I fear, will never truly heal. If you walk south towards Dwarrowden, towards what is now the town of Dale, in the territory of Arlia, you can still see the remains of that blight that scarred the land, so long ago. :200 years! Yet it seems almost like yesterday. The great tear in the sky, the horrors that spilled forth, the despair they brought with them, and those brave few who rose to face it. Seems almost foolish...that it could ever be forgotten. But, times change; and the stories of the old are often lost in the minds of the young. This tome, and the contents within, serves as a reminder. Lest we forget. So, bear with me a while longer, if you will, through this final epilogue of that tale. :After the fighting was done, those who survived found themselves once more amidst the ruins of the city they had saved. They had sacrificed much, but it had not been in vain. Behind them, the last remnants of the rift closed forever, and like poison being drawn from a wound, much of the evil that plagued the land began to disperse. When the storm cleared, and the rain finally stopped, less than half of those who had marched on the city walls remained. Both sides were bloodied, tired, and spent. There was no more mood or spirit for fighting, and even the most zealous of Edraxians realised the cost and meaning of that day. An agreement was made, and both sides conceded the field. Silverthorne remained under imperial control, while everything east of the Witherburn went to Edraxis. This would change in time, but that is another story. :Victory did not come without cost. Tens of thousands of brave men, elves, and dwarves died in the Battle for Silverthorne. Fallen to arrow, claw, or spear. Amongst them were the lords Ashford (who died in the fierce fighting in the Tangles) and Skal (who single-handedly opened the eastern Watergate and fell to hordes of dreadborn at the breach). Skade of No House, who fell protecting her lifelong friend. Legate Julius Vex, who died surrounded by his men on the walls of an enemy city. Flamekeeper Aerisa, killed by the Dread Queen, devout till the end. Zugzug, the fiercest of goblins, loyal to a fault. And of course, Castiel Auriel Alexandros, who died so that all may live. :Their names, as with all who fell on that day, are inscribed in the base of the great statue that was built at the heart of the new citadel to celebrate the end of the second dread war. They will live on, safe in the hearts and minds of those that remember them. :It took almost 8 years until calm truly returned to the Argent Basin. The city, in time, was rebuilt, the people recovered, and the last traces of the dreadborn were extinguished, through the efforts of those that remained. :After the war, the remains of Arunrath, the shattered sword of kings, were laid to rest in a small shrine in a quiet corner of the new citadel. The pieces are held still by the kneeling statue of King Malus the Fearless, whose legacy remains untarnished by the darkness he danced with for many of his long years. The stories speak of how he led the Empire through one of its most difficult periods of history, how he fought the Dread Prince near the black gate, and how he dealt the final blow with the very blade he still watches over. And that is good. He was a troubled soul, one who struggled his whole life with the deepest of regrets; but he will be remembered instead for what he really was: a good king, and a good man. :Namfoodle and Tinkeder, once peace was restored, eventually returned to Rukmodan; where they stayed a while with their mother, enjoying each other’s company and the little time they had left together. In the year 4E 113, exactly 10 years after the Dread Queen’s death, they made one final journey together, saying tearful goodbyes at the fading doorway between the planes, in Vikrfjell pass, where Namfoodle left behind this world, never to return. Tinkeder, alone, returned to Rukmodan, where he devoted his life to study and hard work. He would become known over the next century and a half as one of the finest craftsmen the Gnome Gnetwork had ever seen, and when the Northern Alliance finally dissolved, he was instrumental in assuring a continued close relationship between the Guild Union of Zandaran and the Athelian crown. :Nemeia, last daughter of House Tullius, left the group soon after the events of Silverthorne. She travelled, alone, and in secret, to many hidden corners of the world, where she sought always to learn the secrets her father had once discovered such that she would not repeat his mistakes. If she uncovered any of those deeper darker secrets, she never revealed them to a single soul, for she knew better than any the dangers they brought with them. In time, she returned to Elvirea where she was born, and settled down. She married, had children, and regained much of the fame and wealth her house once possessed. She died, of old age, in the newly formed republic of Varais, where her family continues to wield considerable influence to this day. No-one except her family knows where she is buried, though wherever that may be, Ser’amvar was buried with her. Lost to history. :Mei Sün, hailing originally from Kyoshai, never much saw the value in settling down; a sentiment she would carry with her for the rest of her life. She did spend some time in An Rath, helping to restore it to some of its former glory and drawing people to the region, but soon grew tired of the stationary life of a noblewoman. So, she continued to travel, never with much of a destination or an ending in mind, letting the road take her where it would. Along the way, she picked up apprentices, teaching them what she could, which was a considerable amount. She was a hundred and seventeen years old when she was last seen, an old woman that could still easily take on a dozen fighters four times younger than her. Nobody truly knows how she died, but it is generally agreed upon that, whatever it was, she gave as good as she got. Somewhere, in some quiet forgotten corner of the world, her body remains, buried near the side of the road, forever watching over other wandering souls. :Of Lapu, of House Holt, there was no further trace. Some say he was killed by the changeling masquerading as Evan Cairne, while others say he made a cunning escape (as was his way) from the clutches of imprisonment, and took the opportunity to extract himself from the ties and burdens of politics, preferring to live his life in wealth and comfort somewhere far away from war. Whatever the truth, his fate remains a mystery, one that I fear will never be truly solved. :Custos Silva, of the woodland realms, returned to his people and laid down his weapons, vowing never to kill again. He became, in time, a beloved chieftain, despite his troubled youth, and lives still in peace amongst the ancient forests he calls home. :Keylie Greytook, though she mourned her friend for a long time, in time found the strength to carry on. She travelled with Mei for a while, until the two finally parted ways on the shores of the Andrel river. She returned, eventually, bearing the pot with Skade’s ashes, to the north, where she remained. :The Lady Alys Dale, and her daughters, all survived the war. Queen Reina, third of her name, went on to guide the empire through political upheaval, the fall of the Vigil Protectorate, and finally the dissolution of the northern alliance itself, its purpose long since fulfilled. :And so, we come now to the end of this chapter of history. It leaves behind a legacy of blood and ashes, but also a legacy of unity, and hope that blossomed amidst the mud of despair. :What is a legacy? It is the planting of a seed that you will never see to harvest. A few lines at the beginning of a song that someone else will sing. I have lived my life, as long as it has been, amongst heroes. In my youth, I considered myself one of them…but in truth I achieved what I did only by standing on the shoulders of giants. What they have accomplished, few others, if any, ever will again. They gave more than they had to give, and for that the world will remain ever grateful, though many may not know it. :I am old now, older than I deserve. I’ve put down the sword, and taken up the quill, in the hopes that their story could live on long after they are all gone. I confess, I have not been perfect in my retelling. There are details in this tome that are hazy with age and the fog of time, there are pieces missing that I have no doubt forgotten…and there are those few memories I have kept only to myself. A selfish gesture, from an old fool, but one I will never regret. :I did my part. I was there. I knew them all, and I am proud to have called them all my friends, for better or for worse. It was, and remains still, a privilege to have been amongst them. I trust that, in my writings, I have done their deeds justice. :Every story has an end. This is mine. :Signed, Warryn Timbers, Ex-Dean of the College of Artifice, Prime Ambassador to Atheldael, Chief Historian and Archivist at the Iron Academy. With a final flourish, the old gnome closes the tome with a light puff of dust, and stands, agonisingly slowly, from his chair. White hair, standing haphazardly in random tufts, waves slightly in the draught whistling through faint cracks in the walls, as he hobbles over, old bones aching with every step, towards the window, where a simple golden ring lies, well-polished on the windowsill. He stops shakily, puts his hand over it, and sighs, taking comfort in the memories held within. Outside, the first of the autumn storms was brewing on the horizon. It promised to be a cold winter, but for now, the city of Silverthorne was at peace. Shafts of sunlight, the burning oranges and flaming reds of sunset, shone through clouds down onto the glistening rooftops and winding streets of the city, and in the near distance, the glittering towers and parapets of the new citadel, towering magnificently at the heart of the capital, a symbol of pride, defiance…and remembrance. At his window, Tinkeder smiles. There had been a time, not so long ago even, when very little could bring him joy. He had outlived most of his friends, and his greatest failure, the death of his brother, still lingered at the back of his mind all these years later. But sorrow, as with all things, passes. Not forgotten. Never forgotten…but accepted. All was well. He had done his best to make it that way, and with that he could be content. He lifts his hand away from the ring of memories, faint smile still on his face, and looks down at the windowsill, where…amidst the cracks in the old paved stones, the smallest little flower - silhouetted against the sunset, its stem a pale luminescent silver, with petals of purest white - had begun to grow. Category:Story Category:Campaign 1 __FORCETOC__